


Your Body Broke Your Fall

by perfectlystill



Category: iCarly
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s times like these when she’s reminded their bodies don’t fit together like puzzle pieces. Instead it’s too much and Carly just presses and presses trying to get it all to work somehow. They don’t complete each other or become one or anything ridiculous like that, but maybe if she holds on tight enough they’ll overflow together, get rid of all the bad bits and leave all the good ones.</i> or, alternatively titled, iHave a Long-term Affair with my Best Friend</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Body Broke Your Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Porcelain Fists" by Ingrid Michaelson, and epigraph from "Wake Up" by Arcade Fire.

_our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up_

 

Carly has always prided herself on being a good girl, a rule-follower, if you will. She doesn’t like to cheat or lie or steal or any of that, and sometimes she breaks out in a rash if she does. It’s rather disgusting. She does her homework herself, turns it in on time, always eats her vegetables and tells the cashier when she gets an extra nickel.

She’s a genuinely good person, she thinks.

But sometime between Sam and Freddie breaking up and getting back together for the first time, she starts kissing Sam.

It’s like this: Sam sleeps over, lying next to Carly, hands smoothing out the sheets draped over their bodies, breathing the same way she always does, saying, “Did Spencer pick up more bacon?” because a whole sheet of bacon is Sam’s breakfast of choice, always. And then she stops deliberately, turning her head from the ceiling and looking straight at Carly.

“I think so,” Carly responds. If Spencer hasn’t they can always walk to the store tomorrow morning—or Sam will plead with Carly to go alone while Sam gets a few more precious moments of shuteye, big eyes and pouty lips in full effect. But Sam’s still looking at her, unappeased. “Do you want me to check the fridge?”

“You know how kissing different people is…” Sam pauses and Carly can tell she’s thinking by the way the inside of her left cheek gets sucked in—she’s biting it, concentrating. She finishes, “different?”

Carly laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

“You like kissing, right?”

“Um,” Carly stutters. She can feel the blush burning up her cheeks and down her neck. “Yeah.” Normally she wouldn’t care. Normally Sam’s not this alert before they fall asleep. Normally she doesn’t look at Carly like that, intense, with something Carly can’t place behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she repeats, stronger.

Sam rolls closer and Carly follows suit because sometimes she likes Sam to take the lead, like when some jerk cuts in front of her in line or Freddie’s being really annoying and Carly doesn’t want to be mean (you see, being mean isn’t something good girls do—often).

“Do you ever wonder,” Sam starts, but doesn’t finish. Carly can tell she’s nervous about something.

“Yeah sometimes I wonder stuff,” Carly says lightly, trying to break some of the stillness in the air around her. She’s not used to Sam being so quiet; her usual energy simmered down.

Carly swears Sam looks at her mouth and then back up at her, and Carly kind of does the same—because of the following Sam’s lead thing, again. And Carly doesn’t consider herself to be stupid or anything. She’s not _Freddie_ , but she’s not an idiot either. And she thinks, well, she doesn’t want to think about what she thinks. Because what if she’s wrong and then it’s awkward and, no, she can’t.

Carly’s not much of a risk-taker either.

But then Sam’s foot hits her shin and her toes tickle their way up it and Carly’s having trouble thinking about anything. “Sam,” she whispers, intending to follow it up with something profound or something to make Sam laugh or something to stop her heart from beating in her throat. But she can’t think of anything.

She doesn’t really remember what happens in the next few seconds other than that they seem to stretch on forever, but then Sam’s mouth is on hers and she’s kissing Sam back. And maybe it’s because she’s relieved that the tension is finally gone or because she’s glad she didn’t fail her math test, but it’s kind of the best kiss of her life.

Which, Carly and Sam have never been normal, per se, but Carly doesn’t think this is something most best friends do. She thinks it’s strange even by their standards.

But it’s nice and Sam’s lips are really soft and she tastes exactly how Carly imagined she would—not that Carly spent a lot of time thinking about kissing Sam before this.

And while Carly’s parents are pretty conservative, she doesn’t think kissing Sam makes her a bad person. Spencer’s instilled something more progressive in her.

But a few weeks later—when the kissing is still happening and maybe, maybe one time Carly reached under Sam’s shirt and ground down on Sam’s leg and felt something hot and tight coil up in the pit of her stomach—Sam smoothes down her hair, looking exactly like someone who just spent the better part of an hour making out with Carly, and mumbles, “Freddie and I are back together.”

Carly feels her mouth open a little, so she probably looks like a fish, and if this were a television show and not her life she’d probably be laughing at the visual: her mouth open and her eyes wide, but it is her life. And Carly doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen next. She’s too surprised to really say anything about it before Sam makes eye contact briefly and then runs out the door.

The thing is, what probably makes Carly the most horrible person in the entire world, is that she keeps kissing Sam even after she knows. Even after she sees Sam and Freddie walking down the school hallway holding hands, fingers interlaced intimately, even after she rolls her eyes at their bickering during iCarly rehearsal that always ends in brief kisses, even after Freddie confides that he’s like, _really in love with Sam_ , Carly keeps kissing her.

Carly feels really terrible about it, but there’s no rash on her hip and she think it’s possible she’d feel even worse if she stopped making out with Sam.

So basically, she’s fucked either way.

 

 

 

Carly’s flipping through the channels, not really interested in anything that’s on because it’s mostly repeats, when Sam barges in, fist pumping the air and proclaiming proudly, “I got in!”

“To college?!” Carly tries to refrain from yelling but fails miserably.

“No to the Food Olympics!” Sam shrieks, bouncing on her feet. “But also college,” she adds as an afterthought.

Carly’s up so fast she feels the smoothie she had earlier come up her throat as she crashes into Sam, squeezing her tightly. She ducks her head into Sam’s hair and inhales deeply. When they’re hugging like this Carly wonders what it’d be like to have every part of her body touching Sam’s. It’s times like these when she’s reminded their bodies don’t fit together like puzzle pieces. Instead it’s too much and Carly just presses and presses trying to get it all to work somehow. They don’t complete each other or become one or anything ridiculous like that, but maybe if she holds on tight enough they’ll overflow together, get rid of all the bad bits and leave all the good ones.

“I’m so proud of you,” She whispers into Sam’s ear after they’re done screaming and jumping. And it doesn’t feel like enough, telling Sam how proud she is when Sam’s only doing this for her, when she’d really rather just win a year of free ham for eating an entire ham faster than a bunch of forty year old dudes. So Carly adds, “Thank you.”

And then somehow Sam’s kissing her and Carly’s surprised, but used to it enough by now that she doesn’t pause, just laces her fingers through Sam’s hair and curls it around her hand, keeps trying to meld their bodies together. She opens her mouth under Sam’s and stumbles back into the couch, knees bending and Sam falling on top of her. And there it is again, that thing in the bottom of her stomach twisting.

Sam scrapes her short nails behind Carly’s earlobe and Carly lets out this groan that doesn’t even sound like herself. So Sam does it again and Carly pushes her hips up, arching her back trying to get more contact, more friction. Sam’s kissing down her jaw and Carly doesn’t know what’s happening to her, but she just wants Sam.

And that’s the thing that hurts the most. Even now, when Sam’s ghosting Carly’s name over her clavicle and skimming her hand under Carly’s shirt, Carly knows she’s never going to be the one who holds Sam’s hand in public or kisses her on a park bench in the middle of the day, sun shining down brightly—not that the sun shines too often in Seattle anyway—but she doesn’t know whose fault that is, if its hers or Sam’s or both. Because the idea of doing those things is thrilling but it also terrifies her. There’s something safe about Sam being with Freddie. Something expected.

Besides, there are times when Carly’s lying in bed alone at night, thinking about Sam and wondering if maybe half of the appeal is that they’re doing the wrong thing. Because she likes being a good person, she does, but she’s always liked the idea of danger and adrenaline and _what if_ —what if she leaves a hickey where Sam’s neck meets her shoulder, large and round, and Freddie asks where it came from and Sam can’t answer.

(Carly wonders if Freddie would just think it’s a bruise. If Sam could get away with saying she got into a(n another) fight)

—of knowing they could get caught and it could all get even more messed up than it already is. It’s part of Sam’s appeal. It always has been. And Carly wonders if Sam broke up with Freddie, and she was the one holding Sam’s hand it public, if she were to ever get up the nerve enough to do it, if she’d still want to be that person. Or if it’d be like that time she discovered Griffin loved his Pee Wee Babies more than her and she was over it.

She doesn’t want to know; she doesn’t ever want to be over it when it comes to Sam.

So she starts unbuttoning Sam’s shirt, letting the pads of her fingers run over Sam’s stomach before Sam’s breathing heavier and grinding down hard on her thigh, her teeth scraping over Carly’s bottom lip. Carly knows what that means even though they’ve never really gotten too much farther than this before, it means _come on_.

So Carly and Sam push Sam’s shirt off her shoulders and Sam flips them over, frantically pulling Carly’s top off—it gets stuck around her giant head and she can’t see and she giggles. Carly giggles and then can’t stop, even when her top joins Sam’s shirt in a pool on the ground, even when Sam’s fingers finds the zipper to her jeans and pull it down.

And suddenly Sam’s cold fingers are slipping past the elastic of Carly’s underwear and Carly inhales sharply, because there’s nothing funny about this anymore, about the way Sam’s biting her lip hesitantly, about the way Sam looks absolutely terrified and determined and brave. Carly pushes her hips down because she has never wanted anything more in her life (she’s aware she’s being dramatic, but Sam is flushed underneath her and she’s a horny teenager and-)

When Sam slips a finger into her Carly feels her thighs shake and doesn’t know what to do, what she’s supposed to do. Should she kiss Sam? Should she...move? But then Sam’s sort of pumping her finger as best she can and Carly’s body is moving almost of its own accord and she can’t even breathe. She doesn’t remember how to breathe and she’s kind of having a panic attack, but she’s saying Sam’s name over and over again because it’s all she can think about.

Her best friend who is fucking her and still biting her lip really hard and Spencer could come home at any minute—hell, Freddie could walk in from across the hall at any minute and Carly can’t even breathe. Then Sam twists her hand and something inside Carly jolts and she groans and Sam does it again, hesitantly this time, and Carly nods yes because it’s all she can do.

Carly comes with an accidental brush of Sam’s thumb over her clit and she pants Sam’s name into the side of the couch because she’s blushing and embarrassed. But when she brushes some of her hair off her sticky forehead, she can see Sam looking at her in awe, licking at her lip that she’s finally stopped biting—although there’s an indent from her teeth. Carly also sees the mischief there, the glint in Sam’s eyes that says the next time Sam’s thumb hits Carly’s clit it won’t be by accident.

And that sends a little thrill up Carly’s spine.

When they’re dressed, Carly has showered, Sam’s eaten two sandwiches and they’re back on that couch—cushions flipped over and cleaned to the best of Carly’s ability—watching television Sam says, “I’ve never, with Freddie, you know?”

“I’ve never either, I mean, before.”

Sam gulps and then asks, “You want some popcorn?”

“Sure,” Carly says. Because she’s really not sure how you say no to someone after, well, everything.

 

 

 

Carly thinks she’s really thriving at college. She’s so close to a 4.0, and she’s joined Big Brothers Big Sisters because it’s something to do and her roommate was totally into it. It will look good on her resume, it’s roommate bonding, and it’s something any good girl would be happy to participate in, etc. She, Sam and Freddie all agreed to let go of iCarly and it’s been nice. She loved iCarly, but now she’s onto a new chapter, a chapter with terrible cafeteria food and late night trips to Taco Bell and cramming for her astronomy test with a bunch of people from her class.

And her roommate, Tiffany, is nice and has fiery, curly hair and they get along great—except she kind of finds Sam annoying. She said something about, “too much” or “too aggressive” or whatever, once. Which, Carly’s really sorry Sam ate all the marshmallows out of Tiffany’s _Lucky Charms_ that first weekend, but Carly doesn’t think that’s enough of a reason to write someone off completely.

It’s okay though, because that means whenever Sam comes over Tiffany usually finds something else to do, leaving Carly and Sam to do whatever. Sometimes they watch old episodes of iCarly and mock themselves, sometimes Sam threatens to eat all the marshmallow’s out of Tiffany’s current box of _Lucky Charms_ , sometimes Carly tries to convince Sam that yes, it probably would help her pass her Spanish test if she studied, and other times Sam pulls Carly to her and splays her palm over Carly’s stomach and everything shifts. And it’s good.

It’s like nothing has changed even though Carly thinks everything in her life is different now.

She only Skypes with Spencer once every two weeks—it’s supposed to be every week, but Spencer always forgets or is trying to make a cheese sculpture that will reach the moon or something—and she only sees Freddie occasionally at dinner because he’s busy helping the theater department or going out with Sam and like, Freddie actually does his homework on time and gets ahead in school and talks to his mother daily.

But Sam, Sam she sees every other day. Sam is always texting Carly the stupidest things and pictures of people’s buttcracks. Sam’s her constant, a stabilizing force that no one would ever expect Sam to be for anyone.

One day, when Tiffany is in the library working on a presentation for her speech class and Carly’s trying to take a nap, there’s hysterical knocking at her door. So she groans, rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and rolls out of bed, her ankle still tangled in her sheets. She tries to walk to the door that way but kicks them off after tripping, catching herself with her hand. When Carly swings the door open there’s Sam, looking upset. Her hair is frizzier than usual, her eyes are red and her lips are drawn tight and thin.

“What happened?” Carly asks, blinking a few times to try and wake up, even though she never really got passed that hazy half-asleep, half-awake state, but her mouth does feel cottony.

Sam barges past her and Carly closes the door, turning. “Freddie dumped me.”

Later, when she’s thinking about this moment, when she’s lying in bed, Sam curled into her, legs intertwined, Carly will realize that she didn’t have to fight a smile or try to keep from bouncing on the balls of her feet. There were no questions on her tongue about what this means for them, if now when they’re going to dinner Carly can lace their fingers together instead of simply wrapping her hand around Sam’s wrist and pulling her along.

Nope, all she feels is her stomach dropping and her throat drying up even more, her mouth pulling down at the corners. Carly lunges for Sam, wrapping her arms around her gently, rubbing soothing circles into her best friend’s back as she cries about Freddie. “I’m so sorry,” Carly exhales.

And she means it.

If there are two things Carly hates in the world, it’s seeing Sam upset—hearing her sob into her shoulder, the wetness sinking into the cotton of Carly’s sweatshirt—and old yogurt that’s all watery and gross, even though Sam insists that it’s usually still edible, all you have to do is mix it together again and it’s fine (Carly _knows_ that’s a lie), but then the whole thing is just a watery mess and it’s _disgusting_. But it’s mostly the first thing, because Sam doesn’t cry often. She doesn’t let people _see_ her cry. And now she’s hiccuping into Carly’s shoulder and mumbling stuff about not being open enough and being a terrible girlfriend. It breaks Carly’s heart a little bit—or a lot.

So Carly rearranges her schedule. She doesn’t need to start her English paper that’s due Friday, not really. She buys a few pints of ice cream, two pounds of ham from the deli, and a few liters of Peppy Cola—begging Tiffany, who has a car, to drive her to the grocery store and to sleep in someone else’s room on such short notice because this is an emergency.

Tiffany’s really great and understanding. When she goes to get a change of clothes and her stuff for class tomorrow she tells Sam she’s really sorry. Sam just raises her eyebrows and insists she’s fine, which confirms Carly’s suspicions that this is bad, because Sam doesn’t even look like she’s trying keep herself from insulting Tiffany.

As they settle in front of Carly’s laptop to watch _Fight Club_ , Carly sipping some cola and Sam devouring the ham as fast as she can, Carly says, “You’re the best, Sam.”

Sam rolls her eyes and spits around a mouthful of ham, “I know.”

“You know I love you, right?”

“Duh. How could you not?” Sam motions to herself and smiles, but then she looks at Carly seriously, breathes in deep and wipes at her eyes, reaching out and grabbing Carly’s hand, squeezing so tightly Carly is pretty sure her hand is going to go numb at any second, before turning to the laptop, saying, “Let’s get this bitch started.”

Sam falls asleep on Carly during _Signs_ , and Carly imagines she looks like a fool trying to turn the movie off with her foot in an attempt not to wake her. She skips her first class the next day because Sam’s still asleep.

Everything seems fine after that. Sam doesn’t cry after that first time, but she seems a little sad for a while, which Carly is sure is normal.

Soon Sam’s falling asleep in history like always, making fun of Tiffany, and kissing Carly with the same amount of fervor and urgency as before.

Carly sighs in relief and goes back to her life, too.

 

 

 

It’s about three weeks after Freddie broke up with Sam—and Carly smacked him upside the head when she saw him. He apologized, but said he just needed a break, some space. And Carly rolled her eyes because how cliché could he be? But he’s Freddie and her friend and she still loves him anyway. They talked about everything in their lives at lunch and he promised to help her in statistics next semester, so that’s a plus.

But besides Sam and Freddie not kissing all the time, everything goes back to the way it was before. And then one day Sam’s twirling Carly’s hair around her finger, joking about something—Carly can’t remember because it’s not really important—and Carly realizes that she’s in love with Sam. It’s not some big revelation and she doesn’t think she’s psycho because a) she’s not Sam and b) Sam’s her best friend. It just kind of washes over her like a wave of warm water and makes her feel really light, like the only thing keeping her in bed is Sam’s hip pressed into hers, the covers tangled around their bodies, and Sam’s finger in her hair.

Carly doesn’t know who she can talk to about this though, because she really wants to talk about it. Maybe make a pro and con list about these feelings and bounce ideas around about what to do next. But she obviously can’t tell Freddie because it’d open up a big bag of worms she doesn’t want to deal with— _can’t_ deal with. And she really can’t just tell Sam. She can’t tell anyone else because what if Sam doesn’t feel the same way? And Carly doesn’t even know what it means yet, besides the floating feeling.

She’s never really been in love before, not in this way. So rationally she thinks that maybe it isn’t romantic love, maybe its food poisoning or aftermath of the best organism she’s ever had. But she thinks about how people, in movies and in life, always say you just know. And Carly isn’t too good at trusting her gut, but she figures she knows.

So, naturally, she decides to take Sam on a date without telling Sam it’s a date. It isn’t very difficult.

When she offers to pay for dinner Sam eyes her and says, “Good, because I didn’t bring any money and was planning on dining and dashing anyway.”

“Sam!” Carly’s eyes widen. “That’s terrible.”

She shrugs, finishing the last of her Soda. “Then I guess if you’re so opposed, it’s good that you offered to pay. And besides, you usually pay for me.”

“No, you usually ask to borrow money and then never pay me back,” Carly points out. Not that she minds. She remembers when Sam got a job in order to pay her back and ended up absolutely miserable. She’d rather just pay for all of Sam’s food than witness more tears. But facts are important to Carly, something left over from the idea of being a good girl and telling the truth that she just can’t shake. Or maybe it’s just a facet of her personality, not a label she keeps trying to adhere to for whatever reason.

Sam frowns a little. “Look, Carls. When I become a billionaire I promise I will pay you back, especially for the time you agreed to spend the day at the movies with me and only paid for the first ticket despite the fact that it was killing you, and you almost made a break for it to buy the second one before I tackled you.”

“Okay.” Carly grins, remembers the sugar high from all the candy they ate, bouncing on the couch and racing up and down the stairs, remembers crashing in her bed, so exhausted she couldn’t keep her eyelids open for anything.

“Are you paying for desert too, or do I need to borrow money for that?” Sam asks, putting air quotes around the word borrow.

“I’m paying for desert, too.” Carly can’t help but grin even wider when Sam smiles and first pumps before grabbing the desert menu and groaning over all the options.

 

 

 

Carly’s plan was this: dinner, followed by mini golf, followed by Carly telling Sam she loved her, followed by sex. It seemed like the best order of events, if you asked her.

Sam’s just gotten a hole-in-one and tackled Carly with a hug when Carly almost confesses how she feels, dusting some dirt from her butt. Instead she says, “Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?” Sam asks, twirling her club around and around, studying the score sheet to make sure she’s winning—and she definitely is, Carly’s never been too good at anything that requires hand-eye coordination or athletic ability.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Sam looks up at her, her eyelashes making spider web shadows on her cheeks, colored lights glowing behind her. Biting her lip, Sam thinks about it, saying, “I mean I definitely—” before her phone rings, cutting her off abruptly. She reads the new text message before breaking into a grin. “It’s Fredwuss, he wants to talk about us!”

“Oh.” Carly breathes in and tries to keep her face neutral despite the dread working its way through her veins, making her feel tired and heavy and like maybe she could cry at any moment. “Do you think you guys will get back together?”

Sam stops. She’s quiet and the sound of all the people around them sits between them for what seems like ages. Laughter feels really out of place to Carly, stinging her ears. “I mean,” Sam pauses, bites her lip and thinks, looking at Carly seriously. “What do you think?”

This is it. Carly knows. It’s her moment; it’s now or never. She should tell Sam she loves her and that she wants to be with her for real, because now she knows there’s no way in hell she’ll ever get tired of her. She knows Sam makes her heart beat faster when her fingers brush over the notches of Carly’s spine, makes her laugh so hard she starts crying, makes her feel like it doesn’t matter if she got a C on her midterm simply by threatening to do something horrible, and probably illegal, to her professor’s house. It’s like a movie because even though Carly’s sure people are still talking and laughing around her and that group of middle schoolers is catching up and will want to try this hole soon, everything seems to go quiet. All Carly can hear is her blood rushing in her ears.

She says, “Well, he makes you happy.”

She forgets to say, “I love you.”

Sam hesitates before agreeing, but Carly doesn’t really know if it’s because of her, or because the annoying middle school kids are standing by them, asking if they’re done because they’ve been on this hole for-fucking-ever (Carly remembers what it was like to taste swearing for the first time. She can tell that’s how it is for this little asshole by the shine in his eyes. He feels really cool).

“Cool it, asshole,” Sam shoots.

“Yeah, we’re done.” Carly amends, grabbing her ball before moving on.

 

 

 

Except Carly doesn’t, move on, that is. She still sleeps with Sam regularly, relishes in the way Sam’s breath hitches before she comes, the way her eyelids get screwed shut and she starts making up words that sounds unbelievably dirty.

She feels bad about it, always. Especially when she’s with Freddie and he’s being extremely nice to her. Honestly, he’s the only reason she pulled off a B in statistics and why she didn’t overdose on Advil trying to cure the never-ending headache the homework always gave her. And she could never hate him because she’s the one sleeping with his girlfriend, and sometimes it hits her how terrible she is and she just wants to crawl into her bed and never wake up.

Because she’s hurting Freddie and he doesn’t even know it and she can’t make herself stop. She’s tried. Okay, she only tried once, but it ended with Sam sucking on her clit so it didn’t really work out.

She’s having one of those days where she’s feeling exponentially guilty about it at dinner with Freddie, picking at the stew the cafeteria is serving, moving around something that is supposed to be beef but Carly’s sure is another substance entirely. Freddie’s telling a story Carly’s not listening to because she’s busy feeling horrible, and then he says, “And Sam told me you two kissed and it’s totally—”

“What?” Carly screeches so loudly that the people sitting around them look over, her fork clanking against her bowl.

Freddie laughs a little, actually _laughs_ , and Carly can feel her cheeks burning and her eyes widening. “Yeah, Sam told me about that time you two got drunk and kissed.”

Carly doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, so she scratches at the back of her neck and nods like she does, hoping he’ll continue. Because she feels like she’s having a heart attack, and she’d rather know exactly what she’s internally freaking out over and why Freddie isn’t trying to murder her right now than just falling onto the grimy cafeteria floor.

“How it just sort of happened that time. Because I always sort of suspected. I mean, you’re girls and you’re best friends and I’d always figured girls practiced kissing on each other and stuff.”

Carly really thinks she might be dying, because her heart is pounding in her chest and her palms are sweating and she feels like she might cry, which is the stupidest thing in the whole world. “Yeah, I mean, everything they say about friendship between girls is true, obviously.” She tries to sound mocking and light-hearted, but it doesn’t really translate.

“Thought so.” Freddie shakes his head, amused, eating another spoonful of peas—all that health stuff Mrs. Benson taught him really sunk it.

Carly forces herself to eat all the stew she took, fake meat and all, as punishment for being the worst person ever. Because she should probably feel bad for Freddie, that Sam lied to him so blatantly about everything that’s happened between them. Instead, she feels bad for herself.

She feels like maybe she just experienced her first real heartbreak, sitting on a plastic chair, fluorescent lights shining down on her, eating crappy food with one of her best friends, the guy whose girlfriend she has been regularly having sex with for the past two years. It’s just that Sam has reduced everything they’ve done to a simple kiss that Carly is 98% sure never even happened, like it doesn’t even mean anything to her, like it’s just been some sort of offensive lesbian experiment.

And it really sucks.

 

 

 

She barges into Sam’s room, slamming the door shut behind her. Carly has moved on from heartbroken to pissed off. She’s been angry with Sam before, but this feels more personal than all those other times, even though every time she fights with Sam it feels like someone has taken a cheese grater to her heart and gone to town. It feels like that now, but also like maybe there’s a knife in her back and Sam’s twisting it.

Glancing around, Carly sees that Sam’s roommate isn’t there—which Carly assumed, since the girl, Monica or Maureen or something (to be fair, Sam can’t remember her roommate’s name either) always has night classes. Sam’s sitting at her desk, looking at a blank page of a word document with a blinking cursor, chewing jerky. “Hey!” Carly screams, crossing her arms over her chest angrily.

“Hey cupcake, what’s got you so upset? Did Spencer let Socko sleep in your bed again?”

“No!” Carly feels her anger rising when Sam smiles. She never really understood the expression “blood boiling” before, but she thinks her blood might be boiling now. “I was just informed by Freddie that apparently we kissed!”

Sam frowns, sets her jerky down on her desk and turns to face Carly completely. “Look, Carly, I had to tell him something, okay? He was asking all these really dumb questions about what girls do when they’re together, as though you two didn’t spend a lot of Saturday night’s together painting your toenails and watching _The O.C._ ”

Carly huffs, “Yeah but did you have to make up a kiss that never even happened because I’ve only been slightly tipsy a few times and I’ve never blacked out and—”

“Carly,” Sam interrupts, pulling her mouth into a frown and scrunching her eyebrows together. “I was just like messing with him, okay? What are you so upset about?”

“I just,” Carly starts. But then she realizes she can’t say she’s angry that apparently what they have—or don’t have—means nothing to Sam, because Sam doesn’t know it means something to her. So she sighs and plops down on Sam’s bed, bringing her knees to her chest. “I just, I guess I just wish you had told me first so I wasn’t blindsided by it.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says sincerely, getting up and sitting next to Carly, leaning her head on Carly’s shoulder and wrapping her arm around Carly’s waist. “Fredweenie wasn’t even supposed to say anything, but I guess he can’t keep his dumb trap shut.”

Carly can feel Sam’s hot breath on her collarbone, can feel her pulse slowing. She shuts her eyes as her body calms itself, relishes in Sam’s side being pressed into her’s, Sam’s fingers dancing a melody into Carly’s hipbone. She wonders if being in love with Sam means she can’t stay angry with her as long. She wonders if it means anything else, and then decides she probably doesn’t want to know. Carly lays her head on Sam’s.

“To make his stupid blabbering mouth up to me I can probably get him to buy me something. Is there anything you want?” Sam asks, slipping her fingers under Carly’s shirt. They’re cold and Carly shivers, but still leans into them, tries to follow the nonsensical patterns Sam’s tracing.

“Nah,” Carly sighs. Sometimes she wishes she had the moral conscience of Sam—but she thinks she’s getting closer each day.

“I’m supposed to be writing a paper for philosophy but I couldn’t care less about Aristole.”

Carly laughs, “Maybe you could get Freddie to write it for you.”

“He wouldn’t ever. He’s into something called academic integrity or something. I don’t get it, much like everything else about him.” Sam cuddles a little closer and presses her lips to Carly’s neck. “I should really write this paper so I don’t fail this class.”

“Yeah, okay,” Carly says. But Sam makes no attempt to move, so Carly doesn’t either. They sit like that for a long time, the sun starts to set and the sky looks like a bruise—purple and blue and dark. Carly’s eyes don’t quite adjust to the fading light, but Sam’s hand feels nice and warm now, her thumb brushing over Carly’s skin at random intervals.

Sam doesn’t say anything about it, but Carly thinks it was really idiotic of her to think Sam didn’t really care about her at all. Maybe they’re not on the same page when it comes to this making out thing, but they’re pretty much on the same page in every other way. Carly thinks that has to be enough, at least for now.

 

 

 

They finish college, get jobs and not much changes, except Carly starts feeling really old and stagnated. Somehow the stability she craved in college becomes suffocating. She wants everything to be different but not too different. In addition to the many labels Carly has for herself, she has always known she’s picky, and she thinks she’s spent her whole life asking for too much. Things can’t change and stay the same, so she settles for moving forward without _really_ moving forward.

Sam and Freddie do not stay the same. They move in together and then get engaged and Carly does a spit take with her orange juice when she finds out, some of it dribbles down her chin and she spends the rest of the day trying to brush it away, even though she washed her face after the news sunk in.

It’s not so bad. Carly actually thinks it’s probably a good thing, because she may be a filthy cheater, but she’s not an adulterer, so she vows to herself and Sam that once Sam and Freddie are married she and Sam will have to stop having sex. Sam agrees that it’s probably a good idea, right before she attacks Carly’s neck with her mouth, but Carly didn’t really expect any other reaction from her. She’s kind of relieved Sam didn’t fight her on the issue, because she’s become really terrible at saying no to Sam when it comes to sex. Because she doesn’t really want to say no even though she should, so she says yes because it’s what she wants and her self-control has been waning over the years.

She’s Sam’s maid of honor, one of Freddie’s friends from college is his best man, and Spencer gets to make a sculpture for the reception. Everything’s going really well. Carly never thought Sam and Freddie getting married would be fun for her, but it is. She enjoys tasting cake with Sam—which always ends with frosting all around Sam’s mouth. And she says always because Sam insists they go taste testing for cake long after Sam and Freddie have chosen one—and helping Sam pick out the perfect outfit to wear, that’s just so _Sam_ —not a white wedding dress that Sam would hate. The bachelorette party is particularly fun—there’s a balloon fight and a strip club and it ends with Carly eating Sam out, so it pretty much goes according to plan.

Not in the plan: being pressed up against one of the venue’s closet doors, breathing heavily with Sam grinding down on her thigh. Carly has one palm splayed over Sam’s back and her other hand is cupped around her neck, trying to pull Sam closer. Carly slides her tongue against Sam’s; her lipgloss on Sam’s mouth tastes even fruitier than before. It’s quick and intense and Carly’s sure that she’ll have to fix their hair when they’re done.

But this is it, so she’s not going to say no.

Sam nips at Carly’s pulse point and her fingers dance their way up Carly’s thigh, press against the edge of her underwear and Carly feels like she might explode from the barely there feel of Sam’s lips against her neck, ghosting hot air over her skin, giving her goose bumps.

Carly remembers the first time they did this, fumbling and confused and fueled by the same thing that’s always fueled them. The same thing that is urging them on now. It’s not love, but she thinks love is probably wrapped around the real reason, tied around it like a pretty bow, as though what’s underneath isn’t messy and complex and hasn’t broken her heart.

Carly’s fine now. But if she wanted to be dramatic, she’d say something about how being with Sam in this way has broken her heart a little bit each day since mini golf, since the date Sam never figured out was a date. She’d say that she wasn’t sure if her heart was even broken or if broken was just the state it was meant to be in. But Carly’s not a teenager anymore, and she’s come to learn that nobody’s heart is entirely whole—except maybe Freddie’s, but he’s always been strange—and if hers is a little worse for wear than the average person’s, she doesn’t mind, because she wouldn’t change a thing. It’s her life and if she didn’t it to be, it wouldn’t be. She made the choices that got her here. And maybe that’s just as cliché and stupid as the teenage option, but she can’t think about that anymore. She’s tired of trying too hard to make her life make sense and fit into boxes she and Sam destroyed ages ago.

Besides, there’s something really calming about watching Sam come undone, some hair falling in front of her eyes, her mouth opening a little. Freddie’s lucky.

She tells Sam that, says it out loud. “Freddie’s lucky.”

Sam shrugs, smooths out her outfit, and studies the flush still coloring her cheeks. “Yeah, I’m a catch.”

Carly leans her chin on Sam’s shoulder, bends over a little more than usual because of her heels. “Come on, I have to fix your hair so no one knows you just had sex with the maid of honor.”

“You can’t just like, smooth it down?” Sam asks, pursing her lips, because it took forever to do her hair the first time and she started throwing a fit about it less than five minutes in.

“No,” Carly insists, wrapping her fingers around Sam’s wrist, opening the closet door, looking left and right, and pulling Sam back to the room all the bridesmaids are using to get ready.

 

 

 

During the ceremony Carly cries a little because Freddie cries a lot, and she just really likes it when men cry, even if that man is Freddie, who cries a lot more than anyone else Carly knows, except for like, Spencer.

The reception is really fun. She eats fried chicken and does the Y.M.C.A. and gets really, really drunk for the second time in her life—the first being her junior year of college when she made out with a kid from her finance class, flashed her underwear at everyone and took a lot of pictures with her eyes closed and her tongue sticking out.

Carly twirls around and around and dances with anyone who has a pulse, stepping on feet and making a complete fool of herself. Her speech is practically an ode to how much she loves Sam, how Freddie helped her get better grades than she would have in most of her classes, and how much she really wishes she had hair that curls the way Sam’s does, because she’s drunk and she thinks about her hair a lot when she’s wasted on fruity margaritas. When she’s finished she hands the microphone to the best man, who almost drops it because Carly is not paying attention and smacks it into his skull.

Sam hugs her really tightly, whispers, “I love you the most,” into her ear and Carly screams, “I love you the mostest too,” slurring her words and cracking the biggest grin.

She wakes up the next morning with the worst hangover of her life, a bunch of text messages from people laughing at her drunk texts, and a voicemail from a tipsy Sam about how Sam really wants to make out with her vagina again soon because Freddie is terrible at oral sex. There are more pictures of Carly with her tongue out and her eyes closed than she ever needed to exist, and she swears she will never drink again even though she knows that’s a lie.

Because she gave up on the good girl shtick, and despite wanting to sleep forever, she had a really great time last night.

(She even made out with someone who wasn’t Sam, which is really a plus in her book. She expects to be sexually frustrated until she finds a boyfriend—or a girlfriend. She figures you don’t sleep with your best friend, who happens to be a girl, as long as she has without having some lesbian tendencies.)

 

 

 

When she meets Alex, Carly doesn’t immediately think he’s The One. Instead, she thinks he’s kind of cute and sweet and has a really nice job. Stability, apparently, is a thing she still wants in her stagnated life, even when she says she doesn't want it—which, it is probably important to mention that a week after Sam and Freddie come back from their honeymoon, Carly and Sam got a little tipsy and made out on Sam and Freddie’s couch. Neither of them meant for it to happen, although sometimes Carly questions Sam’s motivations for pulling out the vodka. Anyway, it does happen and Carly finally gives up any lasting idea that she’s a good girl--one less New Year’s resolution to make.

Alex asks her out and she says yes. She buys a new fancy black dress she’s never had sex with Sam in, does her makeup, and dinner goes great. It ends with them making out in the back of a cab and Carly scrambling out of it before she does something really stupid like invite Alex up to her apartment.

After five dates, when things are still going well and Carly decides the sex is good, she tells Sam about it.

“Oh.” Sam says, pursing her lips and crossing her legs on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand. Freddie’s in the kitchen preparing dinner because Carly liked the idea of Freddie as a buffer—sometimes she thinks that’s what he’s always been for her and Sam.

“Yeah.” Carly looks down at the floor, curls and uncurls her toes. “I just thought I’d tell you because...you’re my best friend.”

“I’m really happy for you,” Sam says.

Carly looks up, and Sam’s not exactly smiling, but she’s not frowning either. She uncrosses her legs again and takes a sip of her wine, so Carly responds, “Good, because you’d have no right to be upset with me.”

Sam chokes a little then, eyes going wide and her face losing some of its color. She manages to squeak out, “I know.” Then, she bites, “I just, I don’t want you to get any STDs or anything, who knows who Alex has been sleeping with.”

“Sam,” Carly sighs, running a hand through her hair. She hears the timer beep in the kitchen and knows this conversation’s going to be over in a few minutes. She could not be happier about that. “You can’t be mad at me.”

“Yes I _can_.” Sam finishes her wine. “And I’m sorry for being a bitch. When are you going to introduce us?”

“You promise to be nice?” Carly asks, raising an eyebrow. She doesn’t really have much faith in Sam to control herself.

“Yeah.” Sam rolls her eyes.

 

 

 

As it turns out, Sam is surprisingly nice. She and Alex bond over their mutual love of ultimate fighting, and Freddie likes him because he has a steady job and pulls out Carly’s chair for her before they sit down for dinner—again with Freddie because Freddie’s her friend and Sam’s husband and, honestly, a really, really good buffer.

A year and half later Carly and Alex get married in a ceremony larger than Carly could ever want— because Alex comes from a small town and invites practically everyone he’s ever met in his entire life. Also, he can afford it. Sam is her maid of honor because it’s only fair that she return the favor, and Sam plans the best bachelorette party, full of stupid chick flicks, rewatching episodes of iCarly, and the best cake Carly has ever eaten. It ends, unlike Sam’s, with the two of them asleep on Carly’s couch, the DVD menu for _You’ve Got Mail_ on the screen—and that’s how Carly really knows Sam loves her, Sam _hates_ Meg Ryan almost as much as she hates small sandwiches.

The wedding is nice and Carly cries more than Freddie did at his and Sam’s. Spencer walks her down the aisle and her parents come. Gibby breakdances and Freddie puts together a really nice tribute video to Carly and Alex that ends up being more of a tribute video to Carly. Carly eats so many spaghetti tacos she feels a little sick, but it’s totally worth it. Sam gives her maid of honor speech sober, and it’s sarcastic and sweet and better than Carly could ever have imagined it. She thinks about how dumb she has been every single time she thought maybe Sam didn’t love her.

They honeymoon in Hawaii because it’s warm and Carly gets a wear a lei. They get to tour a dormant volcano despite Alex’s protests that if it erupts, it’s everyone for themselves even though he loves her. Carly calls Sam every night to talk about the trip and promises to get her something that reads _I got leied_ because Sam won’t shut up about it. For some reason Sam keeps promising that married life isn’t as bad as it seems, even though Carly never says anything about it other than she’s really happy.

She knows Sam didn’t have the best honeymoon because Freddie kept dragging her to museums, spending hours looking at stuff that was educational, and sometimes he cut off her tequila consumption. But that doesn’t mean Carly’s not enjoying sunbathing and learning how to hula dance.

But there’s something in the way Sam says it each time that makes Carly pause and think, really think about the softness of Sam’s words, how the sentence sounds different from anything Sam’s ever said to her before. She doesn’t really know what Sam’s trying to say, so once, the night before their flight back to Seattle, Carly says, “This changes things. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you. You’re my best friend.”

Sam’s really quiet for almost two full minutes, Carly knows because she’s staring at the clock in the bathroom. And then Sam whispers, “Stop being so sappy, Shay.”

“Shut up, Puckett.” Carly tries to smile, but for some reason she can’t. “I love you.”

She doesn’t mean, _You’re my best friend_ and she doesn’t mean _I love you like a friend_ , but she’s taken back to that day they played mini golf and she was terrified to say it, the way she’s still scared to say it to Sam’s face, how she has to do it on her honeymoon while on the phone, when Sam might not think she means _I’m in love with you_.

Sam exhales, “I love you, too.”

“You’re killing me.”

“You started it,” Sam says.

And when Carly wipes at her cheeks, she realizes she’s crying.

 

 

 

“I’m pregnant,” Sam says, face drained of any color, hair flatter than Carly’s ever seen it, lips dried out and eyes blank.

“I hope it’s not mine,” Carly laughs halfheartedly, trying to make Sam smile because she looks like she may faint at any moment.

Sam sits down on the edge the couch and blinks a few times. “I’m pregnant,” she repeats.

“And?” Carly isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do. Say congratulations? Tell her that it’s not that bad, that she’s had two kids and they’re wonderful and she loves them so much it scares her? Tell her she’s still going to think she’s pretty even when she’s fat and has to pee constantly?

“I can’t have a kid.” Sam turns to Carly and leans her head on Carly’s shoulder. “I don’t want kids.”

“Have you talked to Freddie?” Carly asks, because she knows Freddie does want kids. She really doesn’t want to be the person having this conversation with her best friend right now. It feels more like a husband and wife thing, and Carly’s never felt more inadequate in her entire life, and there have been many times when she’s felt inadequate.

Sam’s voice cracks, “I can’t. He, he’ll want me to have this thing that is like, stealing my blood and my food and my air and I just can’t.”

Carly wraps her arms around Sam and feels some tears soak through her top. She feels like she might start crying to, but she’ll wait, she’ll wait until Sam’s gone because crying with Sam there won’t get them anywhere. At best it would lead to Sam trying to make her stop crying, and at worst it would lead to Sam crying even harder. Instead, Carly squeezes Sam tighter and asks, “So what do you want to do?”

“I want to get rid of it.” Sam responds quickly. So quickly Carly knows that Sam’s already thought about this.

“Okay,” Carly says.

“Okay?” Sam lets Carly go, wipes at her eyes and raises her eyebrows. Her face still looks unusually pale, but there’s life in her eyes again. “You don’t think I’m some horrible person?”

Carly smiles softly, reaches out and grabs Sam’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I could never think you’re a horrible person. I think you should talk to Freddie about it, though.”

Sam sucks her cheek in and shakes her head no. “I can’t,” she repeats, tears welling up in her eyes again.

Carly sighs and squeezes Sam’s hand so hard that there isn’t any space between their fingers. “Okay. Just do what you want to do and it’ll be okay.”

“You promise you won’t tell?”

“Sam, you’re not a kid trying to steal food. You can do whatever you want.” Carly makes circles with her thumb over the back of Sam’s hand and finally sighs, “I promise.”

Sam looks relieved and grateful, as though she was asking for permission the whole time. “Will you come with me?”

“To get the abortion?” Carly asks, trying out the word on her tongue, testing it to make sure Sam doesn’t flinch or go blank or start crying again. But she just keeps looking grateful, color finally starting to return to her cheeks, a confidence in the way she shakes her head yes. “Sure,” Carly says.

“Thank you,” Sam exhales, tugging Carly into another hug.

 

 

 

Carly sits in the waiting room a few days later while Sam gets the abortion. She took the day off work, told Alex she wasn’t feeling well in the morning—she’s lied to him about enough things over the years that this doesn’t even register. She remembers when being dishonest used to make it difficult for her to function, and now it’s just something built into her system, something she does regularly. She probably should feel worse than she does about that, but then again, that’s the theme of her life—and picked Sam up at ten. Carly keeps flipping through the parenting magazines, taking notes in her phone when there’s a tip that seems like it could actually be useful. The place smells sterile and sick all at once. She tries not to breathe through her nose, but the chair is more comfortable than she would have expected, so it kind of evens out.

Eventually Carly gets called by a nurse to go see Sam in a recovery room. Sam looks okay, a little tired, but other than that Carly think she looks a bit better than she did when Carly picked her up this morning. She’s sitting up, hands in her lap, biting her lip. “I took a nap, after,” She says, as if she needs to explain the hour and half Carly spent in the waiting room.

“I hear that’s normal,” Carly says, sitting down in a chair across from Sam. The nurse tells them everything’s fine, they can leave at any time, and Sam just need to come back in a few weeks to make sure everything’s still okay. When the nurse leaves Carly grabs Sam’s hand and asks, “How are you?”

Sam exhales, shoulders slumping a little. “Good,” she pauses, “relieved.”

“Good,” Carly responds, scratching her nails over Sam’s palm. “You want to get something to eat?”

“A smoothie.” Sam squeezes Carly’s hand when she stands up. “I still need to make a check-up appointment.”

“Do you want me to come for that, too?”

Sam looks at her like she’s really dumb before saying, “No. I’m not five, Carly. I think I can handle a check-up.”

“I was just asking!” Carly’s happy that Sam seems more like herself, even if it means she’s going to get yelled out for trying to help. The past three days, with Sam walking around like a zombie and refusing to eat like she normally does, made Carly feel really on edge, as though there was something horribly wrong.

Sam sighs, “I know. And thanks, Carly.”

“You’re welcome.” Carly lets go of Sam’s hand when they get to the desk and Sam starts talking to the receptionist about her follow up. “Oh,” she hits Sam’s arm lightly, “and I’m paying for the smoothie.”

“But—”

“Don’t even try arguing with me, Puckett. My treat.” Sam’s fingers brush the back of Carly’s hand before Sam grabs it again. Carly thinks her heart, maybe, skips a beat, a smile slipping onto her face.

They’ve never held hands like this—fingers intertwined, Sam’s palm pressed against hers—in public before. It’s nice, even if it doesn’t really mean anything—even if it does mean something.

 

 

 

One weekend, when Alex is away on a business trip and Freddie is home taking care of Mrs. Benson, who has somehow contracted the flu despite it being summer and taking every single protective measure someone could, and Carly's kids are both at sleepovers, Sam comes over, bucket of fried chicken in hand.

It’s like an odd game of pretend, as though this is their house. They eat dinner, watch television and cuddle. It’s domestic and strange and makes Carly feel nostalgic, remembering how they used to do this all the time when she lived with Spencer, back before they kissed and everything became something grown-up and adult and achey. When whatever Lifetime movie they were watching—and mocking—ends, Sam turns toward Carly, pecks her on the mouth and gets up to throw away the now empty fried chicken bucket.

It breaks something in Carly, watching Sam walk into her kitchen like it’s something she does every day—which, okay, it is something she does practically every day, but like it’s _their_ kitchen, something that belongs entirely to them and their story instead of what it really is. Carly has tried not to think a lot about regrets, about what could have been, missed opportunities, taking turns in life that seemed good and expected but ended up being something that muddled the path Carly wishes she had taken years ago.

See, when she said she wasn’t a risk-taker, she meant it. She really wasn’t one, and she still isn’t one. Not in the way that matters. Not when it comes to important things, especially when the adrenaline rush that used to accompany doing something her parents, Spencer or a teacher would frown upon faded away and left the adrenaline rush that only happened whenever Sam stood too close, fingertips brushing under the table or mouths pressed softly together when they shouldn’t have been—maybe they never should have been.

When Sam sits back down on the couch, ready to ask what they’re going to watch next, Carly grabs her and kisses her hard, trying to pour all the contradictions of them and Carly into it, trying to tell Sam everything she’s always been too afraid to say. Because she’s a lot more scared of love than Sam ever has been, despite always thinking the opposite.

Sam kisses her back, opens up her mouth and falls against the couch, head hitting the armrest. She laughs a little, tongue dancing against Carly’s, hands slipping down Carly’s back, under her shirt and back up it, nails scrapping gently.

Clothes fall away quickly, hitting the ground between raspy breaths, sloppy kisses and hips colliding. Then Sam’s between Carly’s legs, mouth hot, tongue pumping inside her, hands gripping her thighs hard, trying to keep her from bucking. There’s white light dancing behind Carly’s eyelids and she chokes out Sam’s name, adding extra syllables.

She comes loudly because she’s tired of being quiet. Sam grins against her thigh, and Carly wonders if this is what being an adult is: admitting that you have a lot of regrets, admitting there’s no way for you to change said regrets, and making the best out of the life you did accept for yourself.

But then Sam’s crawling up her body, breathing over her collarbone, and Carly wraps her legs around Sam’s, tries to stop thinking because she’s exhausted and still breathing heavily. She realizes she has sex with her best friend more often than her husband, and she likes having sex with Sam more than Alex, and it’s like her entire world is finally crumbling around her, so she lets her finger’s find the heat between Sam’s legs and decides she’ll keep pretending until tomorrow.

 

 

 

Occasionally, Carly wonders if people, besides herself, of course, think about asking their husband if they can be in an open marriage so they can continue sleeping with their best friend without feeling too bad about it.

But Carly’s spent so much time sharing Sam that she’d rather not share Alex, too, even if he’d never go for it—which he wouldn’t.

(She’s so selfish, she knows, but she’s in too deep to go back. It’s heavy like bricks over her and she can’t swim out. Actions are permanent. She can’t change them. She’s stopped trying to.)

 

 

 

One day, about a year after Sam and Freddie get divorced—Sam tearfully tells her it’s a good thing they never had kids, makes the entire thing easier—and Sam moved too far away, she calls.

Carly likes to listen to Sam breathing over the phone because it’s steadying. It’s not like they just sit there in silence though; they’re not that lame or sappy or gross. But sometimes when they’re quiet for a minute Carly tries to match their breathing, because it makes her feel like Sam is closer than she is, like she’s still just a quick drive away.

“I’m coming back to Seattle in two weeks for a few days. You know, to visit people and stuff,” Sam says.

“Do you want to stay here?” Carly asks.

Sam’s quiet for a moment, and Carly knows she’s thinking about it, that maybe Carly asked too fast. She doesn’t really know what’s going on with them anymore. They’re still best friends, she’s sure, because they’ll be best friends always. But with Sam gone things are different between them, finally, although Carly hasn’t been able to navigate if it’s good different or bad different.

Something’s missing in her life, but she doesn’t know if that thing was supposed to be there in the first place. She and Sam have always been too much, but Carly had been good at loving Sam too much, is still good at it.

“If it’s okay with Alex,” Sam finally responds. Carly can picture her biting her lip nervously.

That’s another thing, they were never this nervous around each other before. But now, a lot of the time, they’re nervous. Both of them don’t really know what line to tread, what’s too far and what’s not enough. “I’m sure it will be, but I’ll ask.”

“Okay,” Sam pauses, and Carly can tell that she’s about to say something important. “Hey, do you remember when we went mini golfing? Sophomore year?”

“Yeah.” Carly smiles even though thinking about it always makes her sad.

“I kind of always thought of it as a date,” Sam confesses. Carly can picture her mouth quirked up slightly, her heels pressing into her coffee table, her shoulders slumped into her couch.

“It was supposed to be,” Carly says. She wonders why it took her so long to say that, why she didn’t tell Sam when she got engaged to Freddie or after they were married or any other time. She could have, easily. But she didn’t. And she guesses whether there was a reason for it or not, it doesn’t matter now.

“I wish you had told me,” Sam breathes.

Shrugging, Carly realizes Sam can’t see her and says, “I do, too. But I didn’t.”

Sam gets quiet again—Sam’s been a lot quieter lately, too. Carly wonders if it’s because she’s a few hours away, works hard, and doesn’t really have any friends in San Diego. Maybe it’s the warm weather and sun exhausting her. “You know why I never wanted kids?” She asks.

Carly laughs lightly, “Because they’re sticky and scream a lot and childbirth is painful and they eat all the meat and steal money and—”

“Carly,” Sam interrupts, her voice forceful but soft.

Carly isn’t sure she wants the answer, but Sam wants her to know, so she’ll go with it. It bears repeating: she’s gotten worse at saying no to Sam over the years—she used to be so good at it, too. “Why?”

“When you have a kid you have to love them more than anything else, more than anyone else. Which is a really weird expectation the entire world places on you, am I right or am I right?” She breathes, but Carly doesn’t say anything. She can tell there’s something else coming. “Anyway, I couldn’t have a kid because I never wanted one. But also because, a long time ago, even before...everything,” she stops again, inhales sharply and Carly can tell she’s trying not to cry. “But especially after, I promised myself I’d never love anything more than I love you.”

“Except ham,” Carly whispers.

“Except ham,” Sam agrees.


End file.
